I, Grûsbálk
by Simbelmyne
Summary: *AU* All Amy wanted was a movie-based Middle-earth, where everyone spoke English and she was a lovely elf-maid. Sadly, she had a sadist for a writer. Read about her saga of pain, love, and despair. But mostly pain. [7/7: 9/9 & epilogue] *COMPLETE!*
1. Default Chapter

I, Grûsbálk

By Simbelmynë

Summary: Sick of girls getting turned into Elves and hobbits when they get mysteriously flung into Middle-earth? Sick of girls getting flung into Middle-earth altogether? This may cheer you up.

Disclaimer: All Tolkien's. Well, except for Amy Seru. She belongs to the first Mary-Sue writer that ever "graced" the Lord of the Rings section. (Damn you! Whoever you are!)

Rating: PG

Warnings: AU

Category: Humor/Parody (Actually Satire, but there's no category for that)

Music: Vivaldi's "Summer"

Remember the Fords,

Simbelmynë

~Simmí~


	2. A Movie and an Idea

"Sigh."

That's how life seemed to be for Miss Amy Seru, a Californian beauty with long, shimmering, blonde hair that fell down to her knees, and big, bright aquamarine eyes that sparkled like delicate crystals and glowed in the dark. She was young, pretty, popular, smart, a good cook, and rescued helpless puppies. But still, her life was just one big-

"Sigh."

Yep. Life sure did suck for Amy.

"Sigh. Sigh, sigh, sigh," Amy sighed some more. She had just see the new _Lord of the Rings_ movie and had fallen deeply in 'love' with the most beautiful man she had ever seen in her seventeen years of existence: a tall, blonde, gorgeous Elf named Legolas.  Orlando Bloom to some; "Hottie" to her. And twenty thousand other fangirls, but that's beside the point.

She had gone home and poured out her excitement about the movie to her parents. They had seemed very happy about this, and then had suggested something that turned the look of rapture on Amy's pretty face to one of horror:

"Why don't you try reading the books now?"

Their suggestion was based on the grounds that, when they were kids, the books had been very popular and wonderful to read. They claimed that it was actually some guy named TOLKIEN who came up with Middle-earth, NOT Peter Jackson, and that this Tolkien fellow had created a whole history for the cultures and races of his world that was beautiful and fascinating to read and study. Amy just wanted to ogle hot guys, not actually enrich her mind. The very idea seemed presumptuous to her. For some reason, though, her parents had thought it to be perfectly logical.

"I think you would especially enjoy reading about Faramir," her father had said with a nod of his balding head.  

"You would," her mother had assured her. "He's such a sweet man: so caring and sensitive. I used to have a crush on him when I was younger," she had said with a soft sigh and a slight smile. "And I also think you would like Éowyn a lot. She's so strong and much more well-developed than Arwen—not that I don't think Arwen was valuable to the plot. It's just that Éowyn did and suffered through so much more. You know, Éowyn actually killed—"

"Mother! Daddy!" Amy had shouted. "Don't ruin the endings of the movies for me!"

"So…you're not going to read the books?" her father had said incredulously.

"Daddy!" Amy giggled. "You're silly! Reading is for losers and little kids! Not for cool, mature _adults!_ Like me!"

And with that, she had flounced off to download half-naked pictures of Orlando Bloom.

Was it mentioned that Amy was grossly misinformed?

After finding all the information about Orlando Bloom that she could ("Oh, he was born in Kent? An Englishman! Yummy…Moved to London, blah, blah, blah…) and downloading some two hundred-odd pictures of Legolas in various positions, Amy was lying on her bed, bored out of her mind.

_Knock-knock._

"Come in," Amy said dejectedly.

Her mother entered, a smile on her face—and three books in her hands. Amy wrinkled her nose in disgust. "What are THOSE?" she asked, recoiling from the books as one would do from a venomous snake, as if expecting the books to leap from her mother's hands and bite her.

"These are the three parts of The Lord of the Rings, Amy sweetie," her mother responded, handing a green book entitled The Fellowship of the Ring to Amy. "Since you liked the movie so much, I thought that you might enjoy reading the books. Just give 'em a try, hun."

Sighing yet again, Amy took the book and opened in up to a random page.

" ' "The stroke on the left might be a G-rune with thin branches,' said Strider." Eugh, who wants to read about that scummy Ranger?" Amy said. Amy's mother twitched slightly, but said nothing.

"Thanks, Mother, but I don't think I'll be reading these anytime soon," Amy said, raising a perfectly-sculpted eyebrow and depositing the book on her bedside table.

"Well, I'll just leave them here, in case you change your mind," her mother said through gritted teeth (she had been a very avid Tolkien reader in her younger days, and still clung to the 'outdated' idea that reading something was much more rewarding than actually watching it. That, and Aragorn had been her favorite after Faramir).

"Right," Amy said as her mother walked out of the room.

" 'Scummy Ranger' my foot," the woman muttered as she closed the door behind her. 

Amy cast a sidelong glance at the books. Pfft. Books. Reading was stupid. Reading was a waste of time. That, and the words often confused her. It was hard to distinguish between "they're", "there", and "their", after all!

But, then again…only the best books got made into movies.

With a sigh, Amy picked up The Fellowship of the Ring once more and flipped through it until she came to something she recognized: the doors of the Mines of Moria. Was that what they were called? She couldn't remember; she had been too busy trying to see Legolas. God, that Dwarf annoyed her! He was always standing in front of Legolas and she could never get a full view of her Elfie!

Absentmindedly, she traced her finger over the designs of the trees that curled around the two columns, then she flipped to the next page. Italicized words stuck out:

_"Annon edhellen, edro hi ammen!_

_Fennas nogorthrim, lasto beth lammen!"_

"Wasn't that what Gandalf said?" she wondered aloud. She tried saying the incantation herself: "Amon edhelem, edtro hiare! Fenass norgorthrim, lasto beth l...lammen!"

This accomplished nothing, just as it had done in book and movie.

"Hmph." Scowling, Amy turned back to look at the Mine-doors again (hadn't the Dwarf said something about the Doors of Durin? Ah, who cared). To her great shock (and ours, OF COURSE), the door was now growing bright silver.

Thinking quickly (and blowing several brain cells as a result), Amy did what any sensible person who had read The Lord of the Rings would do:

"_Melon_."

The book flashed with bright silver, marring Amy's face temporarily by contracting her pupils to a practically unheard of size. For an unknown reason, she swooned, and knew no more.

* * *

**Coming Up:** Amy finds herself in a very much-known world in a very peculiar situation, and a familiar one at that. No, she's not dead. She'll wish she was.

Remember the Fords,  
Simbelmynë

_~Simmí~_


	3. An Abrupt Arrival at Parth Galen

_Music_: The Seatbelts; "Tank!"

All was quiet over Parth Galen on the morning of February 26th. The sun was rising with flames of murky red, almost as is she had been set alight further by the horrors that lay Eastward, where the Shadows dwelt. Hidden in the green foliage, the Nine Walkers were rising, and preparing to break their fast.

Just beyond their range of hearing, a strange sound was heard by all that could, followed by a girl's piercing scream.

Screaming as if her very life depended on it, Amy fell out of the Plot Hole towards the floor of the forest. Luckily for her and unfortunately for all of Middle-earth, the trees decided to get in the way of Amy and a two-minute screaming drop to the leaf-encrusted, wind-swept floor of Parth Galen that would result in a nice, big, bloody Mary-Sue pancake.

With a series of "OW!"s, Amy plummeted through the air, falling head-over-heels through the trees, breaking off branches as she went. For two minutes she tumbled through the foliage until, at last, she hit the forest floor with a sickening THWAM!

_Oww…crap! Where the hell am I? she thought as she rubbed her sore head. __What's going on? I opened the stupid book…I said the stupid password…now what? What the hell is happening here? I'd better not be bleeding, or I'll sue that Tolkien dude's ass off!_

She opened her eyes and looked around.

"Oh, crap."

Green forests, golden, sunlit skies, and no human life for as far as she could see. Near her, there were some ruined stone building and statues. Just like she had seen in the movie at that place. What was it called? Parth Galen or something like that? She knew she had seen the name on the DVD somewhere…

_Oh, shit! What happened? I was looking at the book, and then I said the password of the Mine-doors…oh, wow! I must be in Middle-earth! _

Her first 'thought', if it can be called such a thing, was obvious: _Maybe, if I find the Fellowship, they'll let me come on the Quest!_

Yeah, right. And the sad part is that it seemed so logical to her. Not to mention original.

_And then, I can get my Leggie! And we can go back to Mirkwood and become King and Queen of the cute Elfies and live happily ever after! After his dad dies, that is. She squealed mentally in delight._

_Now, let's see: did I get changed into anything? Do I have any gear? Girls always get changed into Elves or hobbits or something when they get tossed into Middle-earth. Ick, I hope I'm not a hobbit. Those prosthetic hobbits feet were *so* tacky. And they looked *so* fake! Maybe I'll be a pretty blonde Elf! Oh, it would be so great to be Galadriel's daughter! I'll bet I'm gorgeous! Even *more* gorgeous than before. As if that were possible! Tittering inwardly, she finally she bothered to check over her newly-acquired appearance._

"AUGH!"

Scabbed, long-nailed hands covered in green, reptilian skin, and a stout, stocky body swathed in black mail with steel rings was the sight that greeted her. She opened her mouth to say "What the hell?!" The words came out, but in a guttural, snarling voice. And she had this strange urge to growl and run around in an apish fashion.

"Oh my GOD! I'm an ORC! An _ORC_!" With a piercing scream, she flung herself onto the green lawn of Parth Galen. How could this be? Was this some kind of sick joke? The wish that she had held for all of six hours—to come to Middle-earth—had finally come true, and now she was this: an Orc. A hideous creature that everyone wanted to kill. She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream curses at the Powers That Be. She wanted to curl up in a corner and whimper for her mother. She wanted to find something and kill it. 

Damn Orc urges.  

Sniveling, Amy sat up again to assess the situation: She was an Orc. She was in Middle-earth. She didn't know how she had gotten there, and she didn't know how she was going to get home. She didn't know what she was going to eat, or how she was going to procure her as-of-undecided-upon food source. She had no idea where she was going to sleep, or if she would ever make it home alive. She didn't even know which way North was (never mind that rule about the sun rising in the East and everything).

_At least people in Middle-earth speak English, she thought with a relieved sigh (that still managed to sound like a guttural battle-threat). __Hopefully, if I tell them I'm not an Orc and that I know about them, they'll believe me._

Little did Amy know that she had been flung into one of the worst places for any Lord of the Rings fan to be:

Real, honest-to-Tolkien Middle-earth.

And she was headed right towards nine very suspicious, very jumpy, Westron-speaking males.

* * *

**Coming Up: The Fellowship meets Amy. Bad things happen to the poor, abused canon.**

Remember the Fords,

Simbelmynë

_~Simmí~_


	4. The Departure of Canon

**Chapter Three: The Departure of Canon**

_LANGUAGE_: Seeing as how the Fellowship speaks Westron and Amy speaks English, whenever the POV changes to encompass a different language, three asterisks (***) will separate the POV's. 

_PLUGS_: Blatant OFUM jokes and PPC plugs ahead. Oh, yeah.

_PERKS_: Extra-long chapter. Aren't you lucky little people today?

_WARNING_: It's all AU from here. And yes, Amy is going to change as she adjusts to Middle-earth. Because if she doesn't, she's dead. And we wouldn't want that to happen. *cackles*

_FEEDBACK_: Thanks for all that I've received so far. I like it when people cut and paste their favorite parts in their reviews. *wink**wink**nudge**nudge*

_MUSIC_: 'The Official Hamster Dance'

**Weirdlet**: *ponders* Yes…I knew there was something wrong with her. Well, besides the obvious, of course. Thank you for the criticism.

* * *

"I'm cold!"

God, she's such a whiner. 

"God DAMN, it's cold here," Amy muttered to herself, her rotten, yellow teeth chattering as she frantically moved her clawed hands over her forearms (and managed to scratch herself up quite nicely in the process) in an attempt to warm herself against the cool February morning air. "Who knew that Orcs were so sensitive to the cold? No wonder they didn't run after the Fellowship on...Caredres."

Somewhere, in a university near Minas Tirith, a small, fiery demon poofed into existence.

"Where is that stupid-ass Fellowship?" she muttered to herself as she trampled over helpless plants and sent small, furry woodland creatures running for cover. "I've been walking around for two hours in this shitty forest. The least they could do is have the courtesy to show up!" Never mind the fact that once the Fellowship "showed up", the next thing they'd probably do was probably "kick some ass". Leave her to her twisted fantasies.

Stumbling with her iron-shod feet over fallen logs and tripping through burrows and brambles, Amy continued her arduous trek through the underbrush of Parth Galen and, unbeknownst to her, complaining her way towards the Fellowship's encampment, where the Company was currently attempting to decide on a direction: East with Frodo, or West with Boromir? Frodo was presently asking for an hour to make up his mind, and leaving the Fellowship for good, though nobody knew it at the time. He was walking up a hill, and Amy was stumbling down the same one.

Lost in his thoughts, Frodo continued to wander. "West or East? Shall I make for Gondor, and give them the aid that they will surely need, or shall I fulfill my promise to the Council, and bear the Ring still to Mordor?"

"Damn it, damn it, damn it, I hate it here…"

"…But the Council laid it upon me to bear the Ring to Mordor. How can I bear the Ring on an errand West, when its doom lies in the East?"

"I hate Middle-earth. I hate it, I hate it. I am SO not going to see The Two Towers! Ha! Take that, Peter Jackson…Tolkien…whoever created this mess!"

"But, if Gondor falls, who then will know of what deed I have done? Would it not be better to take the Ring to the West and defeat the main strength of the Enemy? Then, when his host has fallen and his power has crumbled, the Ring could be brought to the Mountain of Fire and destroyed!" 

"OW! My freakin' foot! Stupid tree!"

*KICK*

"OWWW! STUPIDER TREE!"

Frodo looked up. A loud, snarling voice, screaming some unknown curse, had just pierced through the trees. There! There it was again! A foul, evil voice that seemed to chill the very bone and made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end:

"THE STUPID TREE BROKE MY STUPID FOOT!"

He furrowed his brown brows. "What was that? And what did it say?" He slowly drew Sting; he took in a breath sharply: the blade of Sting was glowing blue. 

"If I had an axe, I'd chop you down, you stupid tree!…Oh, wait: I do. Huh. How'd that get there?"

Casting a dark look up the hill, Frodo sheathed Sting and immediately turned, fleeing blindly down the hill as fast as his hobbit feet could take him. Behind him, it sounded like someone was trying to fell a tree.

Suddenly, he ran into what felt very much like a great oak. With a grunt and a moan, he fell backwards onto the green lawn. 

"Frodo!"

Blinking blearily, Frodo looked at the thing he had run into. It was Boromir. He had a rather strange look on his face, but Frodo didn't care. He was glad to see a familiar face, even if it wasn't as friendly as it had been.

"Boromir! Oh, I am glad to see you. There are Orcs in the forest, Boromir! We must warn the others!"

Boromir unsheathed his sword, the strange look flickering from his face as anger was kindled in his deep grey eyes. "Where?"

"I do not know," Frodo replied. "I was walking when I heard one shouting. I came to tell the others."

"Go, Frodo," Boromir replied. "Warn them. I will hold the filthy things off."

With a quick nod and a grateful smiled, Frodo scampered down the hill as Boromir strode purposefully in the other direction.

***

*CRASH*

Smiling smugly, Amy watched as the great tree she had bruised her foot on fell to the ground with a bang. Poor Middle-earth horticulture. 

"That'll teach you to break MY foot, you stupid tree," she said as she proceeded to trek through the underbrush, now slashing down anything in her way with her newly discovered ax. She had decided that the best way for her to get out of this situation was to remain calm, cool, and collected. In every movie she had ever seen, it was always the panicky people who died.

But, inside her nearly-empty head, Amy WAS panicking. What had she done to get herself into this situation? And why was she here? She obviously wasn't here to help on the Quest; otherwise, the Powers That Be would have given her a more appeasing façade to hide her 21st-century helplessness behind. She racked her brain, trying to think up an explanation as to why she had been dropped into this place.

Her stomach suddenly gave a terrible lurch as something horrible dawned upon her. She had often seen her cat, Karl, play around with the mice he had captured: he would allow them to run a little ways away from him before pouncing on them, tearing their little heads off, and eating their still-warm bodies. Were the Forces doing the same to her? Toying with her before they struck her down?

She blindly sough answers from the sky. "What are you doing, whoever you are?" she asked quietly. If the Forces were there, They would hear her. "What's going on? Why am I in this body? Why are you doing this?"

The eaves of the trees swayed in a brief, passing wind; the bare branches rubbed against each other. On the ground, a gust of wind kicked up some dead leaves, which brushed past Amy and danced around her. It seemed that dead things were the only things in this world that remained un-repulsed by her. 

A leaf brushed past her orc ear and stuck in her matted hair. In its dried concave area, she seemed to hear a very faint noise that echoed inside her ear, as if the wind itself was whispering to her:

_'Ha ha.'_

If it was possible for an orc to blanch, Amy did. Shock was quickly overcome by rage.

"DAMN YOU!" Amy screamed, grabbing the leaf and crushing it in her clawed hands. She turned her face towards the sky. "YOU DID THIS TO ME! This…this sick joke! What do you want? Do you want to see me suffer and die? Am I supposed to be the mouse in this little game of yours? WHO ARE YOU?!"

The wind ceased as randomly as it had begun.

"URG!" Amy buried her ax in the trunk of a tall oak tree, breathing heavily and growling. So that was it. This was someone's sick idea of a joke. She was the pawn in this game of Cat-and-Mouse. And, from her knowledge, the Mouse never, ever won.

_Great._

She looked to the sky again. "How do I get out of here?"

Silence.

_God dammit. I hate this place._

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

Amy's head snapped around. Someone was coming up the lawn towards her. Her heart began to race; orc adrenaline surged into her veins. She grabbed her ax's haft and yanked as hard as she could.

It didn't budge.

"Oh, come ON!" she squealed, pulling with all her strength, trying to force the ax out of the tree's firm interior. "Come ON, you _STUPID_ _AX_!"

Too late.

The branches of the trees were pushed aside, and _he_ came forth.

He was striding purposefully on his great, long legs, a drawn sword in his hand, seeming to be taller than mortal men. His hair was long and black, and hung to his shoulders in great, thick locks. His eyes were dark and grey; they burned with a cold fire. And, although Amy didn't know it, his name was Boromir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor; and he was prepared to vivisect orcs in his full canonical glory.

Amy nearly wet herself.

He cried something in a foreign language at her. Amy didn't know what he said, and she didn't care. She had enough sense to know what to do when some angry guy comes at you, wielding a big-arse sword.

She ran.

Abandoning her ax, she turned and fled blindly the way she had come. She heard the man bound through the underbrush after her. She could only discern one word from his speech: his battle-cry:

_"Lú Gondor! Gondor!"(1)_

Ducking around the numerous trees as best she could, Amy fled, trampling the lust foliage with her iron-shod feet. She racked her brain, trying to think of where she had heard that word, Gondor, before.

_Oh, God, oh, God…Umm…Legolas said Aragorn was its heir, and Boromir said that his father was the Steward of Gondor, whatever that is…so…AW, SHIT!_ The realization that this warrior was either Aragorn or Boromir finally dawned upon her, and filled her with new terror: she had seen how many orcs Aragorn and Boromir had slain in The Fellowship of the Ring.

Tears stung the corners of Amy's bloodshot eyes as the warriors footfalls came closer to her own. _I'm going to die,_ she thought. _I'm going to die in this God-forsaken place in this repulsive body and I'm never going to see my home again. I was just kidding, Peter! Or Tolkien! I'll go see The Two Towers, I'll read the books—hell, I'll MEMORIZE the damn things! Just let me LIVE! PLEASE!_

The Universal Laws of Comedy kicked in.

She tripped

With an "OOF!", Amy fell over a large log and went sprawling to the ground. She got a mouthful of dead leaves, and dirt was kicked up into her eyes. Spitting and blinking, Amy's tears dripped into the dirt as one thought flashed through her mind: _I'm really going to die here. _

She closed her eyes.

***

The orc ran. Boromir followed.

A cold fury was brewing within him. A hatred of these orcs and the Dark Lord who they served. An anger at the Ring that was tempting him; a Ring that served the Dark Lord. 

He grasped his sword tighter. This orc would not escape. No doubt it was a scout, sent by a larger orc party to spy on the doings of the Fellowship. He was resolved: here was one orc who would never look upon Mount Doom—or Isengard, wherever it came from—ever again.

The creature seemed to be weaving erratically through the forest. Boromir's brow furrowed. Why wasn't it just hacking and slashing its way through? An orc would think it easier to do that; Boromir knew that it would slow the creature down.

It did not matter. The thing was weaponless and afraid, and was erring in its terror. Boromir would overtake it soon. 

Suddenly, the thing tripped over a log and landed on the floor of the forest. Boromir slowed his pace, and, when he drew up beside the creature, stopped. 

The thing looked up at him with wet, bloodshot eyes. Boromir furrowed his brow again. If he hadn't known better, he would have thought the thing had been crying.

It didn't matter. It was an orc; it was a worker of evil.

The thing put its head back down in the dirt, waiting for the final blow to fall.

He raised his sword over its head; the blade glittered in the sun.

***

Amy stared up at Aragorn. Or Boromir. He didn't look like anyone she had seen in the movie, but the movie no longer mattered, and neither did his identity. He was going to kill her. She was going to die in this strange, coarse world.

She put her head back down in the dirt. _You sure didn't play with me long,_ she thought bitterly, hoping her message would somehow relay itself to the Forces. _Next time you decide to randomly pull someone into Middle-earth, why don't you let them stick around for a little longer?_

She waited. What was taking him so long?

The warrior moved next to her. She heard the soft clinks of mail and the crunching of dead leaves as he shifted his weight to his back foot. He was going to stab her to death.

She closed her eyes tight.

*Swish*

"Urk!"

* * *

(1) Forgive me: this is Imaginary Westron. It means, in my mind, at least, "For Gondor! Gondor!" *holds out her wrists and waits for the readers to slit them for inventing words*

**Coming Up:** Canon returns with vengeance. Nope, she's not dead yet, damn her.

Remember the Fords,

Simbelmynë

_~Simmí~_


	5. The Uruk hai

**Chapter Four:** The Uruk-hai

A/N: Extra-long chapter today, because…because it took so damn long for me to update. *pulls Phoenix Flight up* Alright, dearie, you can stop begging now. And SilentStep, please don't turn my soul to cereal. I kind of like it the way it is. ;)

  
"Urk!"

Amy's eyes flew open again. That was an unusual battle-cry. Usually, it was more "AAAAAAAAAAAAAUGH!" or "YAAAAAAAAAAH!", or some other scream to incite fear and despair into the enemy's heart, not to mention to get the testosterone flowing. In fact, it almost sounded as if—

Amy blanched again. Slowly, she turned her eyes to the warrior.

Boromir—for now she was sure of his name—was swerving slightly above her, a large, black-feathered arrow protruding from his stomach. His face remained stern, but his eyes were filled with pain. He was fumbling with his sword with his right hand as his left clutched at his mortal wound.

Amy was speechless. Her mouth worked like a fish out of water's, but no noise came. This was far worse than the movie; hundreds of times worse, because this was real. That was real blood trickling out of the wound, not fake stage blood. Amy felt the urge to retch.

_What are you waiting for? Now's your chance! Move, you idiot!_

Thanking the voices in her head for being honest for once, Amy jumped to her feet and bolted. She heard Boromir roar with pain and rage as she fled up the hill again. He wasn't going to let her get away.

Amy ran. Boromir followed.

*Swish*

"Ah!"

Amy covered her face with her clawed hands as Boromir yelled in pain. A second black-feathered arrow had pierced his left side. His pace slackened for a moment, but he soon pressed on.

Amy was running without purpose. All she knew was that she had to get away from Boromir. Where would she be safe?

_The orcs, you idiot!_

Thanking the voice in her head and glaring at it for being so rude, Amy scrambled up the hill, when she heard loud voices, very much like her own, crying in some foreign language:

_"Sharkey!"_

 _What the hell?_

Without warning, hundreds of orcs stormed out of the woods. Jet-black steel armor clanking, sword flashing, feet crushing the underbrush in a great stampede of sweating bodies and foul war-cries, they poured out of the forest by the dozens.

Swept up in the assault, Amy could do nothing but charge forward, caught up in the rush of so many bodies. A wave of black swept over the hill, and Amy could see fear in Boromir's eyes, even as he struggled to stand, straight and proud against his foes. That was the last time she saw him alive.

The assault ripped through the foliage, giving no thought to stealth or the element of surprise. There were a good two hundred orcs in this assault; nine men made little difference to them. Amy had seen what those nine men could do, though. She tried to work her way into the back.

Amy saw the shore of the Great River coming into view beyond the trees; the three Elven boats rested on the shore. The Fellowship was waiting.

Scarcely had the orcs begun to pour out onto the shore before the arrows of Legolas were flying. Amy could only watch in horror as her 'comrades' fell before her, green shafts sticking out of their heads and hearts. All too quickly, she noticed the pattern of the falling orcs.

_Must duck, must duck, must duck-_

Too late. The dark eyes of the Elf turned towards her, even as she sought a breach in the ring of orcs to flee. His hands moved faster than sight, yet it all seemed in slow motion to Amy: the drawing of the green-feathered arrow, the nocking of the arrow against the ash bow, the tightening of the white string-

_Oh, God, no, I don't wanna die here at the hands of some Legolas-impersonator with brown hair…_

The Universal Laws of Comedy kicked back in, none too soon. Another rule of canon was shattered at the same time.

Amy was so caught up in her panic that she didn't see the dead orc right in front of her. And, despite being a natural gymnast (or so she claimed), she, of course, tripped, her heels whirling into the air over her head.

This caused Legolas to miss for the first time in his life—badly.

"AAAAAAAAAAAUGH!"

_THERE'S AN ARROW IN MY BUTT!_

Screaming, Amy fell to the ground on her face and clutched at her rear. If her taking an arrow to  the rear was someone's idea of a sick joke, she was _not_ laughing. Quite the opposite, she was howling in pain on the forest floor. The uruks simply ran around her, not caring about her obviously dire situation, as she dragged herself off to the side of the battle, hid under a sparse tree overhang, and began to administer her own crude form of first aid on her *ahem* wound.

_Ow, ow…okay, Forces of the Universe! I've had it! Throwing me into Middle-earth half a mile above the ground was funny! Turning me into an orc was…amusing. Hitting me in the butt with an arrow is NOT COOL!_

Cursing the Forces for obviously not caring about whether or not she found this situation funny, Amy began to gently tend to herself. Taking the shaft of the arrow in her fist, she tenderly began to move the weapon back and forth in a short arc, trying to pull it out of herself with minimal pain. She bit her lips with her fangs to keep herself from screaming and drawing attention to herself. Outside her little overhang, the battle raged on; the screams of pain and the stench of blood and orcs did not help her concentrate on her wound.

_Alight, Amy, you're not going to do yourself any good by dragging it out like this…just pull it, already!_

Cringing, Amy gave the arrow a yank. A bolt of pain ripped through her body, which quickly set into a dull throbbing in her hindquarters.

With a wince, Amy looked at the arrow. It was of excellent craftsmanship: adorned with green feathers on a smooth, perfectly-balanced wooden shaft, ending with a meticulously-shaped arrowhead, covered in black blood.

Her blood.

Amy felt a wave of nausea building in her lower stomach. Fighting to keep it down, she stuck the arrow in the dirt beside her and laid down in a fetal position under her overhang, one hand over her wound to stop up the steady trickle of blood, for lack of a better bandage.

The sounds of battle were starting to get fuzzy in her ears. Her heavily-lidded eyes managed to focus on an ant crawling beside her.

_Awww, shit…I'm dying. From a flimsy little arrow to the ass. Man, thanks a lot, Forces of the Universe. You sure played with me a long time…_

~*~*~*~

"Ow!"

Amy was in pain. Lots of it.

She was lying in the dirt, face-down. Her hand was still clutched over her wound, which had since scabbed up. Sticky black blood coated her hand, which she wiped off on the grass in disgust.

_Dammit, why am I not home yet?_

Pushing herself up and sitting back on her heels, Amy realized she was still in the same little overhang where she had pulled the arrow out of her rear. Said arrow was still lying beside her. Picking it up, she cautiously ventured out of the tree overhang.

Amy made a face. The carcasses of orcs were strewn about the wooded area, and the stench of blood was so strong it made her dizzy all over again. Flies were beginning to buzz into the clearing to feast, but so far, the bodies remained relatively untouched.

_I guess I haven't been out for that long,_ she thought, moving through the corpses and clutching her sore spot gingerly. _I guess the Fellowship must be gone off to rescue Merry and Pippin. Meh. I don't think I'll follow. I've had enough adventure for one lifetime._

Stretching and wincing slightly, Amy began to walk at a leisurely pace through the underbrush. _I wonder if there's a bar anywhere near here._

The sound of laughter, ringing through the trees, reached her ears; also, the smell of cooking meat. Her stomach gave a loud growl. Blushing slightly, she pressed her free hand over it and wandered cautiously towards the trees were the laughter was ringing from.

Pushing aside the bushes with one hand, Amy gasped at what she saw inside the clearing.

Orcs.  
Dozens of orcs, sitting around small campfires, holding what appeared to be a feast of epic proportions. There were no less than five orcs at a fire, and, from the sound of things, there were more orcs in the clearing beyond that. Each orc was roasting a hunk of meat, eating a hunk, or carving a piece off of a nearby carcass. There was also a great amount of laughter, chatter, and singing among the ranks.

Amy smiled wryly. The orcs seemed so much like humans from her time: humans that went out to clubs and bars at night to celebrate nothing in particular, and were just looking for an excuse to have a good time and get smashed. She lifted an eyebrow at her own internal comparison. Why did the orcs have to be so much like humans? It gave her a rather foreboding feeling in the pit of her empty stomach. Carelessly, she shifted her weight to her other foot; a twig broke under it.

Every head in the clearing immediately turned towards her, and Amy's face paled as she realized what she had done. _Aw, shit…_

"Hai! You! Come join us!" A large orc was motioning her over. "Well, don't just stand there gawking! Come, take your spoils with the rest of us!"

Hesitantly, Amy pushed back the brush and stepped forward into the orc encampment, making her way towards the orcs that had called her over. The other orcs stared inquisitively at her, making her feel quite uncomfortable, as she sat down next to the orc that had called her over. He was quite large and hairy; and he was clad in black mail, gnawing on a bone. A human femur bone. Amy closed her eyes and wished against wishing that THAT image didn't have to be imprinted into her brain for the rest of her life. Gradually, the chatter around her resumed.

"Where am I?" Amy asked the orc, trying to look only at his face and avoid staring at the bone he was chewing on. "And how can I understand you?"  
The orc glowered at her. "You're at the Hill, my duck; and what sort of question is that?" it asked, moving the bone in and out of its mouth, as if gnawing on some succulent treat.

"A foolish one, I should think," another orc said, sitting down beside this first one. This one was carrying a half-charred hand of a human male, which he immediately began to tear at with vigor.

"Oh my…God…" Amy turned away, trying to keep the bile from rising to her throat.

" 'God'? Who?" a third orc glared critically at her. "What is the matter with you, woman? What do you have to fear from some well-deserved fare?"

"It's just that it's all bloody and gross and—wait. 'Woman'? I'm female?"

The Uruk-hai stared at her as if she had a third arm growing out of her face. Finally, the second one spoke cautiously:

"You didn't know that?" 

"Have you been confused this entire time?"

"…Well, yes. But that's beside the point! How do you tell a male orc from a female orc? They look the same to me."

The uruks stared at her.

Shut UP, you idiot! You're an ORC, remember? They think you've been an ORC for your entire life! Now, get your foot out of your throat and start acting orc-like!

"…Never mind."

The orcs stared skeptically at her before the fourth one spoke: "Where do you hail from, woman? We've not seen many like you 'round lately."

"Uh…East?"

"Ah! 'Ow is it over there?"

"…Sunny?"

The first orc made a face. "Sun. Bah. Here, have some Man."

Amy looked down at the bloody lump of flesh the uruk was offering her. There were tufts of dark hair sticking out of it in haphazard places, similar in color and texture to the hair of the warrior that had pursued her—Boromir.

"Erm…no thanks. I, um…ate a hobbit before I came here," Amy said, handing the bloody flesh back. "So," she said, sitting back on her rear, gripping her knees with her arms, and staring at the orcs, "what're your names?"

"Skaikûr," the first said, taking a moment from his bone-gnawing to speak.

"Azrat," the second one said, tearing at the meat that Amy had rejected.

_"_Múzhak."

"Bâzsnik."__

"And what do they called you over in that 'sunny' East?" Skaikûr asked, throwing the bone over his shoulder at last.

"Umm…umm…ah…"

The orcs waited for a few moments before a knowing grin spread over Muzhâk's face.

"She didn't know her gender, and know she doesn't even know her own NAME!" he said with a roar of laughter, slapping Skaikûr jovially on the back. All four uruks collapsed into a fit of disturbing giggles. "I guess that standards to be a soldier aren't very high in the East, eh? Or did you just take a few to many whacks to the head with the flat side of a sword?"

"I know my name!" Amy said with a huff. "It's…ummm…ahhh…"

"If you know it, then say it, woman!"

"Stop calling me that!" Amy barked. "I'm…Grûsbálk!"

"Ah. Lovely name," Bâzsnik said sarcastically. "Why didn't you just say so?"

"She forgot," Azrat said simply, as if Amy weren't there. "I've heard that they're not the brightest stars in the sky, over there in the East, and now I've lived to see it proved."

"Stars. Bah." 

"Elves. Bah."

"Hai!" A large orc came striding through the clearing where the Uruk-hai warriors were having their makeshift feasts. "There you are, you lazy slugs! Up! Get up, you! We're off to the Tower! Get up!"

"Why now, Uglúk?" another orc, feasting nearby, snapped. "We slew the warriors; why do we need to move now? There's no hurry! Those halflings aren't going anywhere."

"Who knows how many more of them there are? For all we know, those bloody-handed Elves-" -he said this word with a great deal of disgust-"-are on their way out of that accursed yellow wood right now. Get up, you maggots! And spread the word to the others. Or we'll be on our way without you." With that, Uglúk stomped away through the underbrush from where he came.

Grumbling, muttering, and snarling at their leader's arrogance, the uruks stamped out their small, scattered fires and gathered up their gear—all black with small, white devices on the helmets. The wooded area clinked and clanked with the noises of mail shirts being fastened up and warriors girding themselves with swords and battle-axes. In five minutes, the uruks were off again, running into the West. Amy found herself next to Azrat.

"So, umm…what'd he mean when he said 'we slew the warriors'? Only one warrior was supposed to die…"

"Not so, my duck!" Azrat laughed. "Sharkey wanted them all dead, and those halflings caught and brought back alive. That's what I've heard from Uglúk's mutterings, anyway; and," Azrat said with a sigh, "what Sharkey wants, Sharkey gets. Pity. Those halflings would make a dainty little dish, I'll wager." A roar of laughter went up through the ranks of the uruks. Amy felt herself growing ill again at the thought of those cute little hobbits being roasted over a fire…or worse, eaten raw.

"So, how many of the great warriors did we kill, anyway?" she asked, trying to sound orc-like.

"Aye, you didn't have that strong Western stomach, did you?" Azrat said with a laugh. "Not enough to face off with those bloody-handed Elves and keep your wits about you. Don't worry, Grûsbálk: we only need to rush now if we don't want to catch it from Sharkey, or that arrogant Uglúk. Fact is, we killed every single one. Captured all the halflings, too. Four dainty little dinners…"

Amy nearly fell flat on her orc face. "ALL of them?! All…" She counted quickly on her fingers. "…All four of the warriors? Even the Elf?"

"Elf!" Azrat spat on the ground in disgust. "Yes, killed 'im too. Took some time—just didn't seem to want to die. Quite a love of life in them Elves—but we got 'im after a while. What's wrong, Grûsbálk? You look like you've just been banished to the Black Pits!"

"I—I'm fine…" Amy said shakily, clutching her face (and digging it up with those claws something nasty) with one hand. "I just…ate some bad hobbit, that's all."

Azrat looked suspiciously at her, but turned his attention to the makeshift path and continued running.

Oh, God! What's wrong with this place?! This isn't right! Only Boromir is supposed to die! Not my precious Leggy! Even though he did shoot an arrow into my ass…but that's not the point! What matters is that something's terribly, terribly WRONG in this world! What's going on? Why did Frodo and Sam get captured, too? They were supposed to go off to Mordor together! Aww, that scene was so cute…no, FOCUS, Amy! Orcs! Fellowship dead! Ringbearer captured! Something is very, very wrong here! Not to mention the fact that I can understand these orcs…why couldn't I understand Boromir? What's different about these orcs that I can speak to them?

Desperate for answers, Amy once again turned her face skyward. The blue emptiness stared back at her through a mask of leaves, flecked with clouds and the occasional wayward bird. She squinted in the light that glared through various intervals in the tree canopy. Her orc's body was not taking kindly to the sunlight, now that she was in it. Her skin was itching and burning, and it got worse with every step she took. She was going to have to find some sort of shade, or this was going to become unbearable quite fast.

Looking around, she saw that there were no orcs to her right, where the sun was glaring in at a slight angle. There was only Azrat on her left; but he was very tall, and she could see that he cast a shadow large enough for her to run comfortable in.

"Azrat," she said, tapping him lightly on the shoulder. "Can I run it your shade?"

"Hmm?"

"The sun…it burns…"

Azrat furrowed his brow. "You can't take the sunlight?"

Amy shook her head. 

"One would think you'd be able to take that in the East. Fine, then. Come here, Grûsbálk; no sense in driving yourself mad on the run 'cause of a little sunlight—annoying though it is."

Gratefully, Amy maneuvered herself around the orcs running behind her into the shade of Azrat's huge body. She gave a small sigh of content as the burning feeling against her skin abated drastically. She turned to him again.

"So, when do we get a break from all this running?"

"Nightfall, I suppose." Azrat muttered something in another language. "Stubborn Uglúk. Knowing him, we'll stop to make camp, and for no other reason."

"Great," Amy sighed, rolling her eyes. This was going to be one long, long run.

* * *

A/N: Rejoice, for I now have a website. Check out my bio. __

**Coming Up: **Amy discovers the values of exercise. Hobbits make pouty faces.

Remember the Fords,

Simbelmynë

_~Simmí~_


	6. To Isengard!

**Chapter Five: **To Isengard!

A/N: Annoyed TPS fan: Grûsbálk was a named I invented especially for Amy; no name-generator there! Yes, the main idea is that no girl could get dropped into Middle-earth near the Fellowship without screwing up canon one way or another. Anyone notice how Boromir failed to attempt to take the Ring due to Amy's indirect interference?

Andtauriel: *pat pat* Simmer, fangirl, Frodo will be safe from the orcs, I promise…Saruman ordered the halflings undamaged, didn't he? Canon is still trying to fight against all the damage that Amy's presence has done, so expect to see Grishnákh and the Riders of Rohan in future chapters. 

And now, on with the show…

Another Disclaimer: Some orc conversations are taken directly from the third chapter of The Two Towers, "The Uruk-hai." Please do not sue for this. I do not claim this conversation.

* * *

"On, you lazy maggots!" Uglúk barked. Amy winced at Uglúk's harsh tone, but she was already running at top speed. Her orc's body was much smaller and weaker compared to Azrat and the other Uruk-hai. They had been running for barely ten minutes, and she was already tired.

"Come on, Grûsbálk. There's no time for rest, according to Uglúk, at least," Azrat said, taking Amy's arm with his hand and attempting to lead her on. "Come on, come on…"

"I'm trying," Amy panted. "I'm sorry; I'm really not good at running."

"It's a wonder you survived at all in the East," Azrat said with a hint of scorn. "Now, if you had been born in the WEST with that kind of endurance, you'd be dead before you were up and walking. No, it doesn't pay to be slow over here. Why, just the other month, I was out hunting with some others over near the Horse-country, right? All we wanted was a little bit o' horse-flesh, so we got some young, sort of sickly ones…and these filthy Whiteskins attack us! I thought we were doing them a favor, getting rid of the sick ones, but no: to them, every single horse can grow up into a great war-horse for orc-killing, even the sickly lil' runts. Bah. I only escaped…"

Amy tuned Azrat out. She honestly didn't want to hear about his encounter with the "filthy Whiteskins", as he had called them; she had to get back to her Inner Monologue.

_Now what's going on? Are we going to that Barad-dûr place? Or……I'm hungry._

For the rest of the day, Amy struggled in silence to keep up with the other uruks, and to compose a stirring Inner Monologue, with little success in either. On occasion, they ran through full sunlight, during which Amy kept as close to Azrat as possible to keep herself out of the light, with Uglúk cracking his whip over the line every five minutes or so. On all sides, orcs grumbled and muttered about different things in different tongues. But Uglúk's voice bit harshly into her ears again, and she tuned everything out, except for one thought: _Run._

*

They ran non-stop until the pale, slender moon rose in the night sky. When Uglúk finally gave the order to halt at the edge of a cliff overlooking a pale, misty plain, Amy collapsed in a heap on the ground, panting gratefully for the rest at long last. Sweat trickled from what seemed like every pore on her grimy body in steady streams; she could almost see hot mist escaping from her in undulating vapors. Other orcs, similar in body structure to her, collapsed by her. Amy could see that they were tired as well. She didn't blame them.

Someone threw something down on the ground beside Amy. She would have thought little of it, if the bundle had not gone "Oof!" as it hit the ground. Curious, she crawled over to the bundle and began to examine it.

"The scouts have come back at last," an orc said to Uglúk, who stood nearby, overlooking the plain.

"What did you discover?" he snarled.

"Only a single horseman," the orc said, giving the misty plain a passing glance, "and he made off westward. All's clear now."

"Now, I daresay. But how long? You fools! You should have shot him. The cursed horsebreeders will hear of us by morning. Now we'll have to let it—hai, you! Get away from that!" Uglúk strode over to Amy and knocked her away from the bundle, which she had been about to open. 

"So, four great warriors weren't good enough for you, eh? I'll tell you the same what I told my lads: these are to be brought back ALIVE, and UNSPOILED. So keep your filthy thieving hands to yourself, you rat!" He gave Amy a kick and she scuttled away. She watched as he bent over the bundle and tore back the grey-green blanket that covered it to expose a small, bruised person with brown hair and exceptionally large, hairy feet. Amy drew in her breath sharply. So that was a hobbit. 

He looked much different than the hobbits she had seen in the movie. For one thing, he looked…natural. Like a very small adult, but like a child at the same time. She could see the difference in height ratio to surroundings when tricks of camera angels were not involved. His features didn't suggest that some sort of gland had malfunctioned inside him. He looked comfortable with his body—or, he would have, had he not been tied up, bruised, and bleeding from the lip and wrists.

The hobbit blinked at Uglúk, who barked at him in some foreign tongue. He cut the cords around the hobbit's legs with a wicked-looking knife, then dragged the poor thing to his large feet by the hair. Uglúk's ghastly hand had scarcely left the brown curls before the hobbit fell to his knees again. Uglúk dragged the battered hobbit to his feet again and shoved a flask between his split lips as the orcs laughed heartily.

Uglúk strode off to another bundle nearby as Amy continued to stare at the hobbit. He turned his face away from hers, a mixed look of contempt and fear written on his features as he noticed her eyes upon him. She felt her orc's heart breaking. She had loved the hobbits so much in the movie: they had been her favorite characters after Legolas (a moot point by now), and she wanted more than anything to baby the hobbit at this time: the cuddle him like a mother would and tell him that everything would be okay. Besides, he was cuter than a teddy bear.

But she knew that, as an orc, hobbit-cuddling was strictly out. Cuddling hobbits would probably look very odd to her companions; it was very un-orc-adox. She giggled at her little mental joke.

A yelp of pain behind her made her turn, where she saw Uglúk attempting to smear some foul, dark substance from a wooden box on the bloodied forehead of another hobbit. The hobbit was putting up a terrific fight, considering the little amount of strength he had left. Too little to fight off Uglúk. Amy wanted to grab a rock and dash Uglúk's brains out more than anything right at that moment, but she restrained herself. 

The orcs were hooting and jeering as the hobbit struggled against Uglúk's ministrations. "Ai, he doesn't know what's good for him and what isn't! If he did, he wouldn't be fighting. Can't take your medicine, can you?" they mocked as the great Uruk managed to hold the hobbit still and smear the substance on his forehead. Then he shoved the same flask between the hobbit's lips, forcing him to drink of whatever draught that it contained.

When the hobbit had drunk, Uglúk split the thongs around its ankles before moving on to the next unlucky prisoner. Amy sighed and moved back into the crowd of orcs, trying to block out the hobbit's protests and Uglúk's determination to do whatever he had to do. The orcs cheered and laughed as the hobbit protested. Uglúk was barking something at the hobbit in his hideous voice, but this hobbit was putting up an amazing struggle.

"Arg! You little maggot!"

Amy looked back towards the hobbit. Of the two remaining hobbits, one had had his legs unbound. Once they had been unbound, he had sprung between Uglúk and the last hobbit and was attempting to keep the great uruk away from the hobbit on the ground.

_Sam._

The thought came into her mind unbidden, but she knew who the hobbit was: Samwise Gamgee, the most devoted hobbit she knew of. And the hobbit he was defending was surely Frodo Baggins. She knew of no other friendship between hobbits that was so strong.

She watched, wincing, as Uglúk gripped Sam around the waist, lifted him into the air, and handed him to another uruk. Then he split the ropes around Frodo's ankles and dragged Frodo to his feet by the hair, and he had done to Merry and Pippin (now she knew the two other hobbits, though she couldn't be sure which was which). After Frodo was standing uneasily on his feet, Uglúk shoved the flask into his mouth as Sam kicked at the uruk that held him captive, crying out something in another language as the orc cursed at him: "Pipe down, runt!"

As soon as all the hobbits had been taken care of, and the hobbits had been separated from one another by a dozen orcs or more apiece, the orcs began to descend the narrow ravine, down towards the misted plain. Amy had managed to place herself near Frodo, who looked at her in fear and doubt. She tried not to let his  affect her ability to climb, and the ravine was very steep. One false move, and she would topple towards the soft grass at the bottom.

So, of course, Amy could only sigh and curse the Powers that Be as her foothold cracked, snapped, and she was sent tumbling, head-over-heels, to the bottom of the gully.

"Ow, ow, ow, OW!" Amy shrieked as her wildly flailing body kicked up a stream of dust and rocks that followed her towards her final destination. She vaugley heard Uglúk yelling something at her, and she thought bitterly, _Hey, sure! Hang on a second! Just let me finish PLUMMETING TOWARDS A PAINFUL STOP!_

"AUGH!" she yelled as she finally bounced to a stop on the plain, the torrent of rocks she had kicked up falling down on all sides of her. Her face was towards the misty grass; she heard scuffling noises as the orcs descended with care where she had been hasty.

"Ow. Note to self: dun do that again," Amy grumbled, sitting up and putting her hand to her head, where she had received a deep cut from her fall.

As the party descended the wall, Uglúk was the first to approach Amy. His face betrayed his emotions at once: he was positively livid.

Amy closed her eyes. _Great. Bye-bye, world._

"OOF!"

Uglúk walked away, leaving Amy to breathlessly clutch the section of her stomach where he had kicked her. Gasping for air slightly, Amy managed to drag herself to her feet. As the orcs passed, they each made sure to give her a slap on the back of the head, save Azrat, who checked to see how badly wounded she was.

"Now straight on!" Uglúk shouted as the last orc crawled down the ravine. "West and a little north. Follow Lugdush!"

"But what are we going to do at sunrise?" The orcs who were akin to Amy in appearance and body structure looked nervously at the eastern sky.

"Go on running," Uglúk replied, exasperated. "What do you think? Sit on the grass and wait for the Whiteskins to join the picnic?"

"But we can't run in the sunlight!" the orcs protested. Amy was among them.

"You'll run with me behind you," Uglúk snarled, "or you'll never see your beloved holes again. By the White Hand! What's the use of sending out mountain-maggots on a trip, only half trained., or not trained at all." He glared in Amy's direction. 

"Run, curse you!" he barked, urging the uruks on. "We've a lot of ground to cover before the Whiteskins learn of us. Run while night lasts!"

* * *

**Coming Up: **Lots more running. Amy sees that the green grasslands of Rohan actually ARE green, NOT gold.

Remember the Fords,

Simbelmynë

_~Simmí~_


	7. Author's Excuse

Author's Notes.

G'day, all. This space will become a chapter in the future, so save your signed review opportunities, and do not flame me or kill me or do anything to me that would in some way hinder my desire or ability to write. I just need to say something:

There will not be another update until sometime in early to mid February.

_*dodges random flying sharp objects*_

I'm sorry to say that because of several poor marks on my most recent interim, my computer privileges have been taken from me. I'm sneaking on now to write this brief notice so that no one thinks I'm dead. I could try writing it on the computers at my high school, but the filtration system is a major hassle when I'm trying to do research, and it filters out ff.net. Also, I only have forty minutes to work at my school, and that's during my lunch period, which I'd rather not miss.

Anyway, that's my excuse for the future lack of updates.

Secondly, several people have expressed severe amounts of wrath and overall intense displeasure at my choice to remove the Fellowship from the storyline. I assure you that the canon is perfectly safe, that I know exactly what I am doing, and that it was all Amy's fault. I will deal with her in a most harsh manner for her heinous act. To see how, please stay tuned to the stirring climax and conclusion of "I, Grûsbálk," coming to a computer screen near you this February.

Also, Éomer was unduly ignored in The Two Towers and I'm not at all happy about it. 

_~Simmí_


	8. Valacirca, Menelvagor, and then Some

**Chapter Six**: Valacirca, Menelvagor, And Then Some 

A/N: More dialogue taken from The Two Towers. Just trying to keep it canon, since Amy is obviously not.

So they ran. Again.

With long strides and gaits that resembled animals rather than men, the orcs began to make their way over the long plain. Amy ran along with them, but she had moved herself to the hindmost position, just alongside Azrat; inside the group there was sheer chaos as orcs jostled for positions, fought, and yelled, all the while running at a great speed.

_They're nuts,_ Amy thought, watching the madness that was taking place in front of her as curses of mixed languages pierced the serene night air. _If they took a little more time to get themselves organized and in a line, they could go so much faster. Why don't they even consider that option? Why does Uglúk let them run however they want? I don't think he's a very good leader, aside from his ability to yell. And maybe kick. If he could only get some respect from them, he'd—_

_Amy! You're cheering for the bad guys! Stop that!_

Disturbed by these thoughts of sympathy towards those she had been instructed to hate, Amy looked towards the sky. It was tinted slightly with light blue on the western horizon, just under the slender moon, which shone in the sky like a sliver of glossy pearl. Around it, the stars glittered and shimmered as they had done at home. Sighing, Amy looked around the sky, which twinkled and sparkled like a display of diamonds on black velvet. 

_Okay, this is gorgeous. Even if I don't make it out of here alive—which I _do_ want to, Powers That Be, just in case you're listening—I'll always remember this. I can't believe that people wouldn't care about something so beautiful. Why are they so clear here, but I'm lucky if I see one or two at home? Arg, that nerdy kid was talking about that once, but what did he call it? Light Smog? Light Vapors? Erm…oh, yeah! Light pollution! Right. No lights in Middle-earth._

"Azrat," she said, turning to him and making sure to keep quite, for Uglúk was running not far behind them, "where is the Big Dipper?"

"What? Dipper? Well, I think Gúshlúf has a flask of water with him; he might—"

"No," Amy said, shaking her head. "The constellation. The star-picture?"

"I don't know what you mean, Grûsbálk."

"Mmm…it's shaped like this—here, give me your hand." Taking Azrat's hand by the wrist and turning it so that his palm faced the sky, Amy drew a sickle-shaped contour in his palm.

"Oh…that. Why would you want to see that, that horrible sickle?" he asked bitterly. 

"Because I…why is it so horrible?"

"Huh." Azrat tilted his head back towards the sky, gazing lazily at the stars as he trotted. "You don't know that story, do you? Don't have these sorts of lovely stories in the East, I guess. My old friend Babgá use to tell me it. He was like you, a lesser breed, and his mum use to tell him stories. That over there," he said, pointing north, where the Dippers twinkled, "is what those dirty Elves call…no, I dare not speak its name. Know that we call it the Scythe. Their great queen of the stars—just thinking about their name for her makes my head ache—set those into a sky as a warning to all of us. To Saruman, and his master, and his master's master. And that dirty sickle, and the Elves' sky-swordsman, and their divine ship, are always going to be in the heavens until the last days of this world, watching us, so that we have no peace by day or night. 

"It goes to show you, Grûsbálk, that those accursed Elves have got their eyes on us no matter where we go or what we do. They'll come and hunt us out of every cave and safe hole we have left, if they win the war. A lot of the smaller tribes have moved into the East to get away. They're not taking any chances; and here's a fact, Grûsbálk, that I'd like to tell you, if you can keep a secret."

"I can," Amy said.

Azrat leaned close to Amy's face and whispered: "I wish I was among those fleeing tribes. I don't trust the power of the Hand, or the Eye."

"I don't blame you," she said softly, blinking nervously under the strong stare of his yellow eyes. "This whole war has gotten horrible. Loads of people are going to die. And I…I'll probably never see my home again. I miss my mom and dad." She sniffled. "I can't be happy here without my family, no matter how pretty it is."

Azrat clapped her lightly on the shoulder in a gesture of reassurance. If she had been one of his complaining friends, he would have started complaining in turn about how his father was an orc and his mother was a Rohirric prisoner of war that died soon after she gave birth to him from malnutrition; how his father had been mercilessly strangled to death by a great uruk for getting in the way in the forge; how he had spent his childhood training to be a soldier; and how the only home he knew were the stinking caves under Orthanc. That was how orc foot-soldiers bonded: by comparing horrific stories.

"Grûsbálk, I—"

"Hai, you two! Uglúk called from behind them. "What are you saying? Speak up! Have you got something to share with us all?"

"Nothing, nothing!" Azrat called back. "Nothing at all!"

"See that you keep it that way!" Uglúk responded, and Amy seethed silently as she ran.

They had run about a mile or so from the cliff when the land pitched down into a wide shallow depression in the earth. Long grass of rich green swayed lightly in the night breeze, except in some parts, where it had been stamped down into the earth by great heavy hooves. The ground here was soft and wet, and felt soothing on Amy's tired feet. All about them there was a thick blanket of cool mist, glimmering in the pale dying moonlight. The shapes of orcs ran in front of them steadily, growing dimmer in the mist until they were swallowed up by it altogether. 

For a fleeting instant, the thought dashed through Amy's mind that she might use the mist to her advantage and make a break for it, to turn and run until she reached the ravine, and to scramble up it and escape. Maybe she would be able to disappear into the fog before Uglúk would be able to catch her, and she could live in a tree for the rest of her life.

_No_, her brain told her. _Where would you go? You know nothing about surviving in such a raw wilderness. You would die within a week, and you know it. Stop being an idiot already._

"I really have to do something about that voice," she muttered so that only she could hear. "It's quite rude."

From behind them, Uglúk called again, this time addressing the whole line of uruks: "Ai! Steady now!"

The words had scarcely left his corroded lips when one of the hobbits, just a little bit ahead of Amy and Azrat, decided to take action. Swerving to the right and diving out of the way, the little hobbit disappeared into the mist before anyone had the chance to act.

"Halt!" yelled Uglúk, just before everything went to hell.

For a moment, there was a great deal of disarray. Amy saw, running into the night, the small hobbit. Someone let out a great cry, pointing in the fugitive's direction, and the chase was on. Amy found herself thrown into it, running even faster than she had before. Someone sprinted out in front of the hobbit and snatched him up off the ground; it was Azrat. Amy saw the hobbit quickly draw his hands up to his face, and she thought, _Don't bother trying to fighting, little hobbit; you won't even scratch that leathery face._  
But to her great surprise, the hobbit was not trying to defend himself. Reaching up to his throat, he pulled something off of his cloak and cast it to the ground, where it lay gleaming in the starlight. As the rest of the uruks trotted quickly back into the line, the hobbit struggling wildly still, Amy wandered over to the object for a closer look. She picked the object up and dusted the grass and dirt off of it.

It was a broach of fine craftsmanship, twisted and knotted in the shaped of a green leaf with silver veins. Emerald veneer shone delicately in the setting beams of the moon, and the whole broach seemed to tingle in her hands, causing her little pinpricks of pain; but it was lovely. It looked similar to the broaches she had seen in the movie, but it was far superior. It seemed to have its own perpetual light source, for even when she cupped it in her hands and blocked it from the moon, it shone dimly with an ethereal glow. She ran her finger lightly over the surface; she could feel the tiny raised veins of a real leaf, too minute to be seen.

_So this is true Elven-craft. Amazing. All the jewelry-makers in the world would give up diamonds and gems, or anything, just to learn how it shines like this, never mind how they make the veins so small. Incred—_

"Grûsbálk!" 

Snapped out of her reverie by Azrat's voice, Amy clipped the broach onto one of the leathery thongs clasped around her waist before trotting back into the line. She was distracted momentarily as Azrat leaned over to ask her what she had discovered, and so she did not see the look of horror and disbelief on the runaway hobbit's face as the Elven-broach gleamed off of her decaying belt, just before one of his guards cracked a whip around his tiny ankles, causing him to jump forward and begin running again.

* * *

Coming Up: Lots more running. More fighting among the orcs. The Riders of Rohan make the appearance.

Remember the Fords,

Simbelmynë

_~Simmí~_


	9. Sun, Grass, Rohirrim

**Chapter Seven**: Sun, Grass, Rohirrim

A/N: More dialogue from The Two Towers.

They ran for hours: over hill and dale, across the broad green land. The hobbits were now directly in front of Amy and Azrat, who had moved up into the line, struggling to keep the exhausting speed that Amy herself found difficult to maintain. Skaikûr had procured a whip and ran just ahead of Amy and Azrat, whipping the hobbits whenever their pace slackened or they stumbled. Every so often one of the hobbits tripped and fell; when one did, Amy tried to be the first one to hoist him to his feet again. She knew she couldn't cuddle them, so carrying one of them for a few miles whenever she could seemed to be the best effort she could make to ease their suffering. It certainly made her feel a little better about her role in the situation.

When the opportunity presented itself, she talked quietly with Azrat. Uglúk had given her a foul look when she had returned to the line; she could tell he wasn't happy with the attention she was getting from Azrat: attention which should be focused solely on his goal of getting the hobbits to Isengard.

So they talked softly, with their heads close together, often running right alongside each other. Amy learned a great deal about from her companion; for instance, why orcs ate human flesh, and found it so tasty ("Men eat sheep an' cow, but it's just not right for them to eat each other. Now, we're not Men; it's alright for us to eat them, you see: they're sort of like our cattle. Big, nasty cattle with weapons, but still, a food source. An' most of them eat so well, you can taste it in them when you eat them. For example, I ate a noble Whiteskin the other day; I swear, I tasted mead in 'im, and a good deal of prime livestock. Delicious."), and why many orcs continued to serve the power of the Hand or Eye, ever after noting the peril it put them in ("A roof over our heads, clothes on our backs, and food in our bellies: that's what Sharkey provides me with. Freedom may be nice, but it's a luxury when the entire world wants to kill you, just because your species is apt to so-called 'wicked deeds'. Sharkey won't kill us for being us; he'll just enslave us. As I say, Life in any form is better than Death."). He taught her the best way to prepare a man's heart and lungs, which herb made the best painkiller to ease the passage when gangrene set in, and how to check a fallen comrade for intestinal piercing after said comrade had sustained an arrow to the gut. The hours crawled by as they ran, though to Amy, the time she spent talking to Azrat seemed to go by far too quickly.

At dawn they halted at the banks of a narrow river. On the lower slopes ahead lay a forest, but it was merely a blurb in the distance from where they stood.

Amy stumbled off in the direction of the river as angry voices began to sound in the large group of orcs. The orcs of Amy's stature seemed to be quarreling with Uglúk's group, but she didn't care. Kneeling beside the bank, she cupped her clawed hands together and drew a handful of water, which she imbibed greedily, sighing audibly as the crisp, cold fluid bit sharply at the inside of her aching throat. Again and again, she raised her corroded hands to her parched lips, until her thirst was slaked; then, she returned quietly to the group to avoid unwanted attention.

As was his wont, Uglúk was yelling: this time, at the smaller orcs. 

"Off you go!" he said, his voice strained and quivering with anger. "And quick, before I knock a few more heads off, to put some sense into others." Harsh words filled the air as the group began to jostle, the smaller orcs trying to dislodge themselves from the larger part of the group, before taking off at a fantastic pace towards the mountains which loomed in the distance, their snow-capped peaks dappled with gold and soft pink light from the rising sun. Only a few of her kind lingered, unwavering.

"Well?" Uglúk muttered, looking to the orcs that remained, Amy among them. If she didn't know any better, she would have sworn she heard a note of weariness and surrender in his voice, like a mother who has grown too fed up with her naughty children to care anymore; but, if she did, it was only for an instant.

One orc shook his head. "Sharkey has more to offer for our efforts; we'll stay."

"He'll give you something, all right. Now we'll deal with Grishnákh." He stopped speaking as some unsteady glances among the larger orcs turned southward, and sighed.

"I know," he said. "The horse-boys have gotten wind of us. But," he said, and here he turned to face another orc, "that's all your stinkin' fault, Snaga. You scouts ought to have your brains dashed out; you're obviously not using them. No matter; we are the fighters, and we'll feast on horseflesh yet, or something better." Amy's stomach turned at the thought of eating horse, as it had during any and all conversations of any meat other than beef.

She turned her face slightly so that she looked eastward, catching a brief glimpse of the sun she loved, even though her face began to burn almost immediately. She saw why some of the orcs had been pointing east. There was a band of orcs coming towards their party from the East, maybe forty or so; and on each of their shields, a red eye glared. Finally, she could take the sun no longer, and, hissing at her body's weakness in a very orc-like fashion, she moved behind Azrat. He patted her lightly on the arm, expressing his sympathy. 

"I hate this stupid sunlight," she muttered. 

"I know," he responded. "But, if we ever make it to the forest, there'll be plenty of shade. You won't have to hide any longer."

"Where did those others come from?" she asked softly, indicating Grishnákh's host.

"Eh? They left days ago, after a fight over the prisoners."

_Why am I not surprised?_

"Why have they come back?" Azrat said, mostly to himself; Amy heard a note of suspicion in his voice. 

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"They're orcs from the Black Land; see the eyes on their shields? They ran off when Uglúk refused to let them eat the prisoners, just before we started this idiot race, but not before lopping poor Thurkdish's head off. If you ask me, they're only coming back because they're hungry again. Still, I'd like to see them try to cut down a meal among us. It's the little ones they go after, the ones who can't defend themselves so well, and they've all scampered." Behind him, Amy whimpered. 

_I don't want to be eaten alive by orcs. I don't want to be eaten alive by orcs…_

"Eh? What's huh? Oh, Grûsbálk! I must have rocks inside my skull." Azrat grabbed her right hand and squeezed it reassuringly. "Don't make such sounds! No one will be eating you as long as I'm still alive and can wield my sword," he said, running his hand softly over the top of her head, which was covered by coarse clumps of long, black hair, in a comforting gesture. Amy smiled uneasily as her face grew warm. She turned her face away and rubbed the bridge of her nose, willing her face to stop growing red and her heart to stop speeding up.

What the hell is wrong with me? I must be getting a little sick. I haven't eaten since I got here. But…ugh, I just COULDN'T eat a lump of Boromir. That's vile…I wonder if they have something I could eat nearby? Wild strawberries or something. Are strawberries in season now? Mmmm…strawberries with sugar…

"Grûsbálk, what are you doing? Come on, let's go!"

Amy shook her head suddenly. Azrat was standing next to her with an odd expression on his face and his hand on her shoulder. He had been about to shake it to get her attention. Sam had been slung over his shoulder, and the hobbit was struggling angrily, kicking his feet against Azrat's back, who didn't seem to notice. The other orcs were jostling past them; they were on the move again, but there were angry murmurs among the orcs: some were muttering "Nazgûl, Nazgûl…" and others were muttering about "Dirty Whiteskins." 

"We're off," he said, and she resigned herself to lope contently next to him, her perk restored by the brief rest, her cheer restored by the residual feeling of his hands in her hair.

*

Hours later, the sun had climbed high into the sky, baking the green grasslands and sending waves of heat rolling up into the sky. Raptors lazily soared overhead, giving Amy a sense of foreboding. Or, what would have been foreboding, had she not been suffering from acute heat exhaustion which was rapidly working its way into heat stroke. The sun was beating heavily on her thick black hair; sweat was trickling down her face in little rivulets. She had begun to take off some of her armor at one point in order to lighten her burden, but Azrat stopped her, saying that if they did not make it to the forest before the Whiteskins attacked, she'd want it dearly.

It was not her finest hour. Her orc's body wasn't cut out for the harsh sunlight and endless running while wearing heavy armor; her human mind was rapidly losing the will to go on. As far as she could see, she was going to die in this horrible place, alone and confused; what was the point of exhausting herself further? But every time she tried to slow down, Azrat would reach out a clawed hand, grab her wrist gently, and convince her to go on, even if just for a little while.

Panting and gasping, Amy thought of the cool water, now hours gone and miles behind her, and she wished she had savored it more. She raised her forearm to her head and wiped the sweat from her brow for the one hundredth time in as many minutes, only to bring her damp forearm to her mouth to lick off every bit of moisture she could. Had she been more aware, she would have realized what she was doing was disgusting, but she was desperate, and hey, water was water to her.

"Maggots!" Uglúk called ahead to the Northerners who had left at dawn; the party had reached them not long ago. "You're cooked!"

_I'm cookin' alright,_ Amy thought. _Baste me and serve me with some vegetables; I'm done for._

"The Whiteskins will catch you and eat you," he jeered. "They're coming!"

_No, they're not, you stupid thing. Shut your ugly mug,_ Amy thought miserably, mopping her face again.

But she jerked her head up when a piercing cry came from the ranks of the orcs whom they had passed. Cries of "Whiteskins! Whiteskins!" and "Horsemen!" rang through the air. The orcs around her began to run with a terrific speed, jostling past her, desperate to get away. She stumbled; Azrat grabbed her arm.

"You've picked the worst time to need a rest, Grûsbálk. They've come. The Whiteskins have come. Come on. We've got to make a run for the forest."

Amy gasped feebly, trying to tell Azrat how tired she was, and hot, and weak; but she couldn't even push a plea for help past her dry and dusty lips. The sounds of hooves and yelling men were beginning to be heard in the distance. The orcs were panicking; most of them were pushing past Azrat and Amy, desperate to escape to the forest. No one gave a thought to the two orcs crouched on the ground.

Amy looked up at Azrat balefully and tried to stand up straight, but she could not. She fell to her knees and gasped, "Go. For the love of God, save yourself."

Azrat hesitated for a moment, looking at the rapidly approaching horsemen. Then he looked back to Amy and grasped her forearms.

"No."

Before she could react, he had grabbed her with his strong arms and slung her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, albeit a large, armored, protesting sack. He turned towards the forest in the distance and began to sprint with the surreal speed with which his race had been endowed, speed he had hidden so that he could run beside Amy. 

Amy lifted her sweat-streaked head and craned her neck to move her long, damp hair out of her face. She saw, as if in an alcohol-induced stupor, a line of tall figures on proud gray horses, moving like a ripple over water towards the fleeing orcs, still in the distance, but visible to her nonetheless. They held weapons of war: spears and swords and bows nocked with arrows with long shafts. Their long coats of mail and helmets gleamed in the hot sunlight, and the hooves of their steeds, pounding over the green earth, was like the rolling of thunder in the distance before a storm.

Amy dropped her head against Azrat's back and wept.

* * *

**Coming Up**: The orcs are surrounded. More talking. Amy messes with canon a wee bit more.


	10. Until Dawn, or: The Sap Chapter

**Chapter Eight**: Until Dawn (Or: The Sap Chapter) 

"I still can't believe you risked your life because I was a little winded." 

Amy looked down at Azrat, who was lying on the ground with his hands behind his head, his eyes closed. 

He cracked an eye open and gave her a cocky grin. "Of course I did. If I didn't, I'd have had to get firewood myself, and why would I want to do that after I've been running all day?" 

She smiled and laughed a bit. "Sure, sure, that's what it was. Purely selfish reasons." 

"That's right. Now, let me sleep a bit. You were heavy," he said, closing his eyes again, the smug expression still on his face. She felt a smile tugging at her lips; he looked exactly like her brother (well…maybe not exactly. Her brother didn't run around with a broadsword), relaxing in the sun on a Saturday afternoon. A twinge inside her chest wiped the smile off of her face, and she turned to the small fire they had lit, a little bit away from the rest of the orcs, and added a few more bits of sticks and dried grass. The fire ate them up greedily and sent its flames jumping high into the air, silently thanking her for her consideration. 

She sat down next to the small fire and placed her hands as close to the flames as she could without risking burns. Sighing happily, she rubbed her hands on her arms once they were warm, spreading warmth through her body, driving the chill of the cold night air away. 

She watched the fire burn merrily. A log resettled with a crack and a pop; an outburst resonated not far away in the orc camp. Behind her, lurking in the shadows, the soldiers on horses remained, though she had not seen or heard anything from them for at least an hour. Her eyes felt heavy; it must have been at least midnight. 

At the thought of the time, a tremor shook through her body and left her feeling sick at heart. She recalled something she had heard the troops saying earlier: "They'll wait until dawn." 

Poking the fire with a stick, she tried to concentrate on something positive, and not on her impending death. She looked to the sky, hoping the stars would offer her some comfort, but the sky was cast over with thick, fluffy clouds; not even the glow of the moon was visible. 

Amy sighed, settled down in the grass beside Azrat, and looked up at his face. The fire cast long shadows up the sides of his face; his high cheekbones were bathed in orange light. His protruding teeth shone in the bright light and glistened threateningly. She shivered as she looked at his face and tried not to think about how similar her own face looked to his. 

"Choo!" Amy grimaced in disgust as she wiped her nose and shivered involuntarily. "Bleah. I think I'm getting a cold out here, dammit. I wanna go hooooome, where we have heating when it gets cold and warm sunshine and soft blankets and hot drinks…" 

"Gûsbálk?" Azrat asked, cracking an eyelid open slightly. "Who are you talking to?" 

"Myself," Amy said sulkily. "Shouldn't you be sleeping? I thought I was sooooo hard to carry, after all, Mr. 'Oh-I-can't-get-firewood-I-was-too-busy-saving-YOUR-life!'" 

Azrat laughed—a harsh, barking sound—and Amy felt her cheeks burn. "Shut up!" she snapped, turning towards him and throwing a twig at him. "You don't know what I've been going through!" 

He smiled at her in a strange way, like a parent amused by the flippant peeves of a child, and scratched his ear. "Is that what you think? How odd; I could have sworn I was running beside you all day, after all. By the White Hand! I thought I would be able to remember if I had done something different. I think my mind must be going already." 

"Jerk," she muttered, looking into the fire. "Jerk, jerk, jerk…" 

A pair of strong arms wrapped around her shoulders gently, and Azrat said in her ear, "Now, that's no way to show someone thanks, is it?" 

"No," she sighed, her heart speeding up from an emotion—fear, or tension, or embarrassment: she couldn't tell which. "So…" 

"Yes?" 

"So…thanks." 

He gave her shoulders a small squeeze before letting go. "I will always be there if you need me. Never think otherwise." With that, he turned and laid down on the grass again, his eyes turned towards the cloudy sky. 

"Are we going to die?" 

He didn't look at her. 

"Azrat." 

"Yes. The Whiteskins have surrounded us on all sides. They'll attack when the blasted sun rises. Yes, we are going to die." 

"How…good at fighting are they?" 

"Their archers can fire a lethal shot from the back of a horse at full gallop from over a hundred paces away—or so I've been told; no one has actually had the chance to prove that. Their spears can punch through armor, and their swords can splinted your shield as if it was made of glass. Their horses are fast and strong, and they'll trample you without a second thought. They're _monsters._" 

Amy felt her eyes stinging. "I don't want to die, Azrat. I don't, I don't…" 

"Who does?" 

In spite of herself, Amy began to weep in fear. It actually would have been quite amusing to any bystanders to see an orc crying, but Azrat felt his heart, which had always been softer than most of his kinsmen's, breaking at the sight of someone so young and helpless losing the last of her hope, with the help of his own pitiless words. 

_In the name of…Azrat, you fool, you knew she wasn't stable enough to hear the truth. Why did you say those things? _he berated himself as he stood up again and walked over to Amy, who was now hiccoughing into her hands. _Lieutenant always said to just spit it out, that there was no point in avoiding the truth…that stupid old fool…_

"I don't want to die, Azrat," she choked out as he knelt down next to her and rubbed her shoulder in a comforting gesture. "I want to live. There's still so much for me to live for. I have…I have a family, and friends; I've got a home I want to go back to, if I ever make it out of this nightmare alive…" 

He wrapped his arms around her shoulders again, crushing her slightly in his powerful embrace, but taking care not to hurt her. "What else can I say? Did you think it wouldn't come to this? Why did you join with the Hand if you feared to die?" 

Amy coughed loudly and violently. "I-I never did! Azrat, I w-wasn't meant to _be_ here! I don't belong in this p-place! I never j-joined the Hand; I was just lost and wandering when you f-found me, with no idea where I was, or what I was, or what to d-do!" she sobbed into his arm. 

He looked at her. "You were never sworn to the Hand anyway? Why didn't you say anything?" 

She shook her head. "Who would have believed m-me?" 

"I would have." 

_And what would you have done?_ she thought bitterly. 

She laid her head against his chest, wiping her tears off her face to the best of her ability. "How long until dawn?" 

"A few hours." 

"I need…I mean, is it alright if I sleep? I feel so tired I could…" Before she finished her sentence, her head was lolling against Azrat's chest; she was fast asleep. 

He laid her down on the grass near the fire and sat down beside her. "Of course you may sleep, Grûsbálk," he said, placing his hand over hers, "and don't worry about what tomorrow brings. Whatever comes, we can't stop it now; we must face it, and we will." 

Amy stretched her neck slightly in her sleep, murmuring something incomprehensible, as she fell into a dark, dreamless sleep, the last one she would have in Middle-earth. Azrat stood beside her until she awoke, his eyes fixed at the impenetrable dark, behind which Death awaited, clad in mail with spears. 

* * *

**Coming Up**: Dawn. 

A/N: ;_; I'm so, so, _so_ sorry this chapter took as long as it did. I'm a horrible, horrible person and I deserve to have my knuckles slapped with metal rulers until I bleed profusely. My lack of motivation must have had something to do with the fact that I actually had to think up my own plot for this chapter. ^^; Laziness one, Simmí zero. Sorry this chapter sucks; the next one should be better, and should hopefully have some of that comedy I promised in the summary (I was wondering where it had run off to, too), along with some action and Men on horses. Yay! Anyway, thanks for your time, patience, and for sticking with "I, Grûsbálk" for so long! _*hugs*_ I don't deserve such fans. And fans review authors they love, riiiiiiiight? *wink wink nudge nudge* 

~Simmí 


	11. Last Chapter and So Much Worse

Chapter Nine: Dawn  
A/N: Nonexistent cookies go to those who can figure out who the Rider with the horsetail crest is, because it means you pay attention to stupid details like that, and I think that's good.

"Wake up."

Amy rolled over and twitched in her sleep, but slept on all the same.

"Wake _up_, Grûsbálk."

"Mmm…garg…zzzzz…"

"Grûsbálk, wake _UP!_"

"SNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE…"

Azrat raised an eyebrow. The last being he'd heard snore so loud was a troll. But he didn't have time to ponder on that now; the sun was rising. He grabbed Amy's shoulders and shook them with little gentleness. Most people would have woken up from having their heads shaken so vigorously that there was danger of a whiplash, but Amy had just run more in three days than she had in three years; she slept on.

"This is ridiculous. How anyone can sleep like this is beyond my reasoning," Azrat muttered as he pinched Amy's nose shut. She sputtered and woke up with a start, nearly socking him squarely in the jaw as she leapt up in panic.

"What! What, what!" she cried, looking around for the source of immediate danger. What she saw instead was Azrat, looking at her warily, his head drawn back to avoid her flying fists. "What?!"

"The sun will rise soon," he said solemnly, handing her a weapon—a broadsword. "The Whiteskins are making ready to attack: can you hear them, their anticipation? The unsheathing of swords and the smoothing of spears? It's like the soft ringing of death all around us…"

"How very poetic. And comforting," Amy whimpered as she tried to manage her broadsword. "Gods, how much does this thing weight?" she whined. It was as wide as her leg, and nearly as tall. Try as she might, it was going to be impossible for her weak arms to lift it. She sighed and let it drop to the ground. Azrat looked at her oddly.

"What's the use?" she asked. "I can't pick it up anyway, so I'd rather be able to run for my life without it, even if I don't get very far."

"I'd feel better if you had a weapon of some sort with you," he said; he seemed uncomfortable. She shook her head. 

"If I can't run, nothing can help me. But I appreciate the thought."

"Dawn is swiftly approaching," he said sadly, looking into the East. "What a way to go."

"Want to watch the sun rise?"

He smiled, amused. "Doesn't the sun hurt?"

"Yes. But a sunrise shouldn't hurt so bad, and besides, I'd like to spend the last few minutes of my life looking on something special, even if it is accursed."

He looked at her. "So would I."

They stood together on the outskirts of the ring of death and stared at the sky. It was a glorious pale blue, the color of Amy's contacts—when she had been human, that is.  
  
Amy felt something on her side, something that felt like a hand—with sharp nails. She looked down to see Azrat's hand on her waist. She felt her face get hot, but she didn't speak or ask him to move it; and together, they watched the sky's color slowly diffuse from pale blue to bands of light pink and pastel orange. A yellow streak appeared on the horizon, and Azrat drew in a breath sharply.

"Here it comes."

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, the sun crept over the horizon in the east. Its bright beams reached out, lazily illuminating the land little by little like the rising tide slowly seeping over the shore, engulfing everything it touched. The earth seemed to spring to life again, and the Riders themselves were stirring. Amy had never resented the sun more in her entire life. 

_ Da-da-da-da-daaaa! _

Amy quailed as a Rider blew a melody upon his horn, welcoming the coming of day—and the slaughter.

_ Da-da-da-da-daaaa-da-da! _

Horn after horn answered his, until the air was filled with conflicting melodies. The noise was confusing the orcs; they looked about wildly as blast upon blast resounded around them. To any of the Riders, the song must have been uplifting, joyful, and inspiring; but to the Orcs, it was like listening to their own requiems. Amy clung tightly to Azrat's side, her only emotional anchor in this insane world, close to bawling in fear. 

The Orcs gave a great war cry.

The horns of the Riders answered them. 

There was a great shaking of spears and swords to accompany the cry, the Orc-host's last futile gesture of defiance. In the midst of their cries, one little voice, one little cry for mercy, was lost: _"I don't want to die like this!"_

The Riders burst forth from their lines like water from a sundered weir. The sunlight which was growing in intensity gleamed on their mail and their weapons glistened with the morning dew like the fangs of a rapacious beast. The pounding of their horses' hooves shook the earth's foundations, and Amy was more afraid than she had ever been in any earthquake.

The beginning of their clash was marked with a furious roar: the Riders were screaming; the Orcs were screaming; everyone and everything was screaming. Chaos engulfed the hosts and strangled them with its cruel hands. Spears and arrows flew; swords fell and clanged on shields or scraped across bone. Skulls were split; flesh was ripped; the air was filled with the sounds of death and despair. Horses trampled the fallen, men and orcs alike, and a deluge of blood washed over the long green grass, staining the earth a hideous red. 

Blood pounded in Amy's ears. She might have been screaming along with everyone else; she couldn't tell. All she could see was blood, death, destruction, and mayhem. She had lost Azrat in the tussle, but all of her conscious thoughts had turned to one goal: her own survival. And, being sans a weapon, she had only one option: 

She ran like a scared rabbit. 

Adrenaline coursed through her body, giving her feet metaphorical wings, as she ran blindly and screamed her mantra at the top of her voice over and over: _"I don't want to die like this! I don't want to die here! I don't want to die at all!"_

'I *can't* die here, like this! I didn't want to come to this place! How was I to know it'd be so awful? I want to go home! Oh, God Almighty, please send me back to where I came from and I'll never do bad again!' 

A mounted horseman galloped out in front of her, sword in hand, and it was then that Amy knew that God hated her. 

She barely had time to look at the Rider, but saw that he had braided blonde hair like his companions, and his helmet bore a long white horsetail which accomplished its job of making him look taller and more threatening. Amy shrank back in horror at the sight of him, falling to the blood-drenched ground, tears spilling from her eyes as she babbled the Pater Nostrum and begged for forgiveness for every sin she had ever committed, from the time she had hit her brother as a three year-old to when she had stolen lip gloss last week and everything in between. 

The warrior screamed in challenge. Amy screamed in terror. She scrambled wildly to avoid the horse's stomping hooves and the Rider's swinging sword. The Rider screamed again; frustration was in his voice as he hacked and slashed; Amy, her blood filled with adrenaline to the point of danger, evaded every swing, screaming the entire time. 

"If I escape this nightmare, I'll never insult Tolkien again!" she shrieked to the heavens in a last-ditch attempt at salvation. 

*SKRIT* 

Amy's breath froze in her throat as a pain more intense than anything she had ever felt in her life radiated from her left leg all through her body. She fell to the dirt, screaming in fury and agony as she realized what had happened: the Rider had sliced her left leg open. The sound she had heard had been his sword scraping across her bone. Steaming blood poured out of the open wound, soaking her calves and thighs. She gasped in pain and despair, thinking, 'Why? I promised I would reform! Who…who of those…Powers…would still hold a grudge against me? All I did was adore Legolas and say a few lines from the book! Why, dear God, does that give someone a reason to want me dead?' 

The Rider raised his sword again; he would not miss this time. 

Amy closed her eyes. 'Then sayonara, and screw you, world!' 

She felt a stabbing pain in her back as the Rider plunged his sword into her. Far off in the distance, she thought she heard Azrat's voice calling out to her: "Grûsbálk, Grûsbálk!" She tried to call back, but her vocal cords stopped working as the Rider cut her throat. 

*** 

Azrat had lost Grûsbálk in the fray. He knew she was weaponless and perhaps the slowest, worst warrior he had ever come across in his entire life; thus, all his thoughts were bent on finding her; there was no way she would survive by herself. 

He caught a Rider's sword on his shield and threw his attacker's weapon off, making a desperate slash at the young Man's throat. His sword clanged on the Rider's chain mail, eliciting small sparks that caused the Rider's horse to rear in pain and shock as they fell on its mane. 

Azrat roared as loud as he could, thrusting his sword at the young man's stomach. The sword skirted off the Rider's buckler with a screech that hurt his ears. He drew back his sword for another strike when he heard a scream that resounded through the battlefield: 

"If I escape this nightmare, I'll never insult Tolkien again!" 

"Grûsbálk!" Azrat bellowed, recognizing her voice at once. He roared his fiercest at the Rider, hoping to scare the young Man or his horse. The horse whinnied and reared in fright; the Man yelled and tried to bring the beast back under his control. Dodging the rearing animal's flailing hooves, Azrat ducked underneath the horse as the Rider struggled to regain control of the thrashing animals, screaming at the fleeing uruk in Rohirric. Azrat managed to discern the words "Coward!" and "Churl!" from the Rider's tirade, but he didn't stop running. 

The world rushed by him, tinted with red, as he followed Grûsbálk's screams. She sounded like she was in pain, and Azrat could only hope that he wasn't too late. 

Grûsbálk! Grûsbálk!" Azrat called out over the battle field. He scrambled wildly in his panic, dodging flashing swords and flying arrows as he rushed towards where he had last heard her scream. In his panic, his sight became impaired; he saw Grûsbálk's throat being slit by a Rider. What he didn't see was the young soldier he had parried, galloping up behind him with his spear ready. 

*** 

The wind roared in Amy's ears… 

She landed with a thump! on something soft and bouncy. Soft, fluffy things fell onto her face, and she ripped them off, staring at them in turn: her stuffed animals. She looked down at the thing she had landed on: her bed. 

She looked at her hands: they were soft and pink, with well-manicured red nails and a silver ring on the left middle finger—just like they had been before her adventure. Her hand flew to her throat; there were no slashes. She lightly ran her fingers over her back; she felt no gaping stab wounds. Finally, she moved her hand down further, looking for any signs of the first injury she had sustained upon going to Middle-earth. 

There were none. 

'A dream?' she thought, then immediately shook her head. 'No way; dreams don't hurt as much as that did.' But as she looked around her room, she saw that nothing had changed in the slightest. Her dresser and desk were the same; all her posters were in order. She looked at her clock; it was the exact same time as when she had been pulled into the book. Nothing seemed to have changed at all. 

But something had changed. 

She had changed. 

She felt different inside, like she had gained and lost a friend. She had felt empty before, without even knowing it; now she felt stronger, and—dare I say it?—wiser than she had before. She looked at the poster of Legolas/Orlando Bloom on her wall: He was still a hunk of gorgeous Elf-flesh, but she didn't feel the need to kiss the poster like she had before her dream. Instead, she was content to simply look at it and enjoy it for what it was worth, like…like she and Azrat had just looked at the stars and the sunrise. 

She bounced a little on her bed, amazed that something so soft and luxurious, compared to where she had been sleeping, actually existed. The comforter felt smooth and wonderful under her fingers; she relished the feeling, as though she had never felt anything like it in her entire life. 

She flexed her hands; they felt stronger, less dainty; she could actually see these hands doing manual labor, unlike the hands she had had before her dream—if indeed it was a dream. 

She swung her legs over the bed; she remembered the painful three days of running and horrible sunlight she had endured. 

"Could that…really have all been just a dream?" she said to no one in particular. Her question went unanswered, lingering in the room as she tried to sort out her thoughts. 

"Of course…just a dream," she said, running her nails through her hair (no longer thick and unwashed, but long, blonde, and silky, like it had been before). "I didn't really go to Middle-earth and get turned into an Orc and cause the Fellowship to get killed and end up running around with a bunch of Orcs only to get my throat cut by a guy on a horse and fall in lo…" she trailed off of her thoughts as her stomach gave a huge rumble, like she hadn't eaten properly in…well, in three days. 

Almost on cue, her mother called up to her: "Amy, dear? It's time for lunch. Would you like me to make you something?" 

Amy cast a look at the books on her table and replied, "No, Mother, that's fine. I'll make something for myself." 

"Alright, hun." 

Amy picked up The Fellowship of the Ring and flipped through it absentmindedly. She remembered the promise she had made in her dream, about reading and memorizing the books and never insulting Tolkien ever again, should she escape the nightmare alive. 

"Later," she promised the book, bounding off of her bed. She rushed out of her room, all her thoughts bent on one thing: food. 

A small gust of wind whistled through her empty room, ruffling paper on her desk. Her stuffed animals stared, unblinking, ahead with their empty eyes, and the Elven broach of Lórien lay under her them, discarded and forgotten. 

*** 

Amy arrived at school the next day in high spirits. She felt better than she ever had before. 

She greeted her friends in homeroom, who were, as usual, chatting away about something the rest of the world would consider frivolous, but was to them was more important than peace in the Middle East, a safe, effective use for nuclear power, and the global destruction of all nuclear arms combined. Today, their topic was Kayla's new pants. 

"They look great on you, Kay," Brandi gushed earnestly. "How much were they? Where'd you get 'em?" 

"Abercrombie," Kayla said. "Forty dollars." In truth, Kayla had gotten them from the K-mart bargain bin for twelve ninety-five, but she wasn't about to tell her friends that. 

"OMG, Amy!" Lindsay said, noticing Amy. "Don't you just love Kayla's new pants?" 

Amy looked at her friend's pants briefly. "Sure, they're cute." 

Her friends stared at her. 

"What?" she asked. 

"What did you do to your hair?!" Tory yelped. 

"Huh? Oh, I got it cut. Yeah." 

"Amy!" Renée exclaimed, pointing at Amy's head, now sans a good two feet of her previously knee-length blonde hair. "You mutilated your head! Why?!" 

"It was getting in the way," Amy said. 

"But it was gorgeous!" 

"But it was getting in the way." 

"You chose substance over style? Amy, are you sick?" 

"No." 

"Did you get hit in the head?" 

"No." 

"Did your brother slip something weird into your iced tea?" 

"No, at least I don't think so." 

"Then why?! You loved your hair, Amy! Why did you do this to yourself?" Jessie asked, trying to understand. 

"Because…well, I just didn't feel the same way about it as I do now. In fact, I feel different about a lot of things." 

Kristin leaned over to Melanie. "I think she's gone nuts." 

"Have not," Amy said, sitting down in her chair. "I just feel different about stuff now." 

"And where did this enlightening experience come from?"  
  
"Well…I started reading Lord of the Rings over the weekend…" 

Across the room, the ears of a mousy-haired girl with glasses pricked up.  
  
"…And I just see things a little different now. I'm up to the birthday party," Amy said, extremely proud of herself for reading something that was not required of her, save that she had promised it in exchange for her life.  
  
"Excuse me." 

The group looked up. A mousy girl (whose name was actually Anita) was standing behind Amy, a large, leather-bound book in her hand. "You're reading Lord of the Rings?" 

"Yeah," Amy said, looking at the girl. "You too?" 

Anita held up her huge book. "For the eighteenth time!" 

"Why bother reading it? You can just see the movies, Amy," Laura said. 

"Oh, I'm not going to see The Two Towers," Kristin said. 

Amy looked at her friend. "Why?" 

"What's the point, if Legolas is dead?" 

Amy's heart stopped for a second, then started again at an incredible speed. "What?!" 

"Yeah. That stupid wizard Sauron's Orc army kills them all." 

"Saruman," Anita corrected. 

"Yeah, whatever. Don't you remember, Amy? Legolas dies last—and he looked so great when he fought with those knives!—but he still dies. And then all the cute little hobbits get captured." 

"Poor Billy Boyd!" Tory sniffed. 

"And then the Orc-host has a makeshift banquet and eats the Fellowship's carcasses," Anita said, "but they didn't show that—" 

"EW!" the entire circle of girls exclaimed, save Amy (whose heart was beating so fast, she was sure they could hear it in New York), who just stared at Anita. 

"—because they wanted to keep it PG-13." 

"That's sick! I can't believe that! Ew!" 

Anita shrugged. "It was in the Orcs' nature to eat people, if they could kill them. Tolkien came back from the war a little messed up, or so they say. That's mostly why his writing turned out so grim. I guess. His family says they never remember him being so grim, especially in his writing. They say he really loved the Fellowship." 

"Then why did he kill them?" Lindsay demanded. 

Anita shrugged. "Maybe someone changed his manuscript before it was published? I don't know."  
  
"Uh, Amy? You okay?" Kayla said, just noticing her friend's condition. 

Amy was clutching her face so hard that her nails were drawing blood from her cheeks. "Tell me, Anita…was there a…female Orc?" 

"Yes…" 

"What was her name?" 

"Ah…" Anita looked thoughtful. "I can't say right now; she was only mentioned in passing, when she fell down a cliff, but I think her name was…Grûsbálk! Yeah, that was it. Grûsbálk. Why?" 

"No reason…" Amy said. To her friends, she said: "Guys? Will one of you catch me?" 

They barely had time the say "What?", because seconds after, Amy collapsed to the ground in a dead faint, and could not be revived for hours after. She was rushed to the hospital, and when she woke up, the only thing she would say was "I…was Grûsbálk…I…Grûsbálk…" 

~The End~


	12. Epilogue

Epilogue: 

The Rohirrim struck at dawn on the morning of February twenty-ninth, destroying the Orc-host completely. Azrat was slain at almost the exact time as Amy, by a Rider named Anna, by means of a spear. His death was instantaneous and his pain was very brief. 

Grishnák did escape with two hobbits—Merry and Sam—while thinking that one or the other had the Ring. He was slain as he ran by a sentinel of the Rohirrim, but the hobbits survived. After a heated argument on what to do, Sam returned to protect Frodo, and Merry escaped into Fangorn, though full of regret. 

By the power of the Elves and the virtue of the gifts of Galadriel, the hobbits did manage to survive the assault, and were discovered later by a Rider named Sebbi, who brought them to Éomer son of Éomund. The Marshall ordered them to be taken to Edoras, and, though the hobbits resisted, they were restrained and brought before the king. 

Éomer was thrown into the dungeons for disobeying Théoden King's orders, and Gríma Wormtongue, knowing that these were the hobbits that Saruman desired, sent word to Isengard almost immediately. The hobbits were, in the meantime, put into the dungeons with Éomer, although Frodo did manage to keep the Ring hidden. 

Gandalf discovered what had happened from Merry, who had indeed managed to come to Fangorn and Treebeard, and rode with the greatest speed to Edoras, where he intercepted the king and did heal him. Gríma's role in it all was exposed, and he was given a choice to either flee or fight with his king, but he fled. Éomer and the hobbits were released, and the Riders resolved to go to the Fords of Isen. Gandalf speculated that Saruman had already gotten word of the hobbits' whereabouts, and therefore advised that they be taken to a safer place. They went with the Lady Éowyn to Dunharrow, and remained there for a while. 

The Riders of Rohan, on Gandalf's advice, went to Helm's Deep, and met Saruman's forces there. However, they did not know that Saruman had split his forces, and sent the other half to Dunharrow in pursuit of the refuges. Gandalf realized this, and rode Shadowfax to Dunharrow, where he met the Lady Éowyn and explained the situation to her. She responded that the host of Harrowdale was fighting in Helm's Deep, and if Dunharrow was to be attacked, there would not be much they could do but take the force of the blow. Gandalf understood this, and decided that the Ringbearer must be kept safe. Therefore, he took Frodo with him to Minas Tirith, much to the dismay of Samwise. 

With the assistance of the Ents of Fangorn Forest, the host of the Mark defeated the halved host of Isengard. They did not ride to Isengard, but to Edoras, then Dunharrow, where they found the stronghold under siege. The ensuring battle was known in the annals as the Battle of Dunharrow. Erkenbrand fell there, as did Elfhelm, and Wídfara, and many other bold Riders. The battle was narrowly won, and Éomer son of Éomund and his uncle the king were both wounded. Dunharrow was saved, but at the cost of the lives of many Riders. They remained in Dunharrow to recuperate, and were there when the Red Arrow arrived. 

In the meantime, the Ringbearer and the White Wizard fled to Minas Tirith and greeted Denethor. They explained the situation to the Steward, but did not tell him that Frodo had the Ring. The Steward was suspicious, and grilled Frodo about Boromir's death, but all Frodo could speak of was his bravery. They also meet Faramir upon his return from Ithilien, who is surprised at the hobbit's appearance, and shares in the grief of Boromir's fall with his father. When they leave Denethor, Gandalf tells Frodo he must keep the Ring safe, tell no one about it, and he must absolutely not use it. He also tells Frodo that they may need to use the Ring as a very last resort against Mordor. 

In Rohan, the king gathered his weakened army and sets out for Minas Tirith with five thousand men at his command. The Lady Éowyn watched them go from Dunharrow. 

Gondor is assaulted and besieged; Gandalf the White managed to keep the Witch-king out of the city until the Rohirrim came. At dawn, the battle of the Pelennor was fought, and the result was disastrous. The weakened Rohirric forces stood no chance against the strength of Mordor. Éomer son of Éomund fell, and so did Théoden King. The Corsairs of Umbar came up the Anduin and swarmed onto the Field. The Witch-king came down from the sky and wrought terror in the hearts of all Men, and none could slay him. 

In desperation, Gandalf brought Frodo to him, and told him that the only way Gondor could be saved and Sauron kept at bay was to use his own ring against him; he bade Frodo to give the Ring to him, to use against Sauron. Reluctantly, Frodo did so, and Gandalf held the forces of Mordor back using the Ring's power. 

For now. 

And the morale of the story is this: Throwing yourself into Middle-earth is bad, and besides, you wouldn't like being there anyway. It's like that "Go-back-in-Time-and-step-on-a-butterfly" principle: you being there would change everything. Change one little thing, even the time of day when the Fellowship leaves (dusk, not dawn), and you change everything. So just don't do it. Because you never know what might happen if you do. And you wouldn't want that kind of weight on your shoulders anyway. 

The End 


End file.
